Baby, It's Christmas Time
by Miss DiNozzo
Summary: Fluffy story about Mike and the Graceland family celebrating the Christmas holiday. Oneshot. Maybe a twoshot if you guys like it and want me to continue.


_Mmmmm….. _My stomach rumbles. The lovely kitchen scents float around the room, igniting my taste buds and amplifying my growing appetite. I close my eyes and picture the table. All six of us sit there, holding hands and saying grace before we dig into the delicious tasting food that Charlie has prepared for us. The smells are starting to make me drool.

"How much longer, Charlie?" I ask, sounding like a whining child. She regards me warmly, like such a response makes her happy. She's very clearly amused by my sudden desire to eat.

"Not too much longer. Maybe twenty minutes," She states casually as if she hasn't just killed my food related fantasies. I blanch at her. _Twenty minutes? _Is she insane? I can't wait any longer, so I am forced to act. I hum an incoherent tune and I try to act natural while slipping my hand into the mashed potato bowl.

"Hey!" Charlie swats my wandering hand away and gives me a look of mock disapproval, but I think she's secretly flattered. She takes the spoon out of her pot and points it at me menacingly. "No touching. You can wait just like everybody else." She pulls the spoon away and keeps stirring the squash. I pout childishly, hanging my head and jutting out my bottom lip. I bring a finger to my eye and drag it downward, imitating the motion of a tear. Charlie spots my expression.

"Here," she murmurs softly, taking pity on me. She lifts a spoonful of the mouthwatering mashed potatoes to my mouth and I part my lips so she can slip the utensil inside. When she does, my mouth is filled with a burst of flavors. I can taste the garlic and the butter, and the creaminess is almost my undoing. I smile with my mouth full in appreciation. She laughs at me and turns my face away from hers until I swallow. I grin expectantly at her, as if she should know what to do now, only to be laughed at again.

"No, Mike! No more. I'm already breaking my own rules to get you to stop pouting. I'm not going to break them again," She says, grinning wickedly. I stick out my bottom lip in a pleading protest. "No! I said no, Mike!" She exclaims in amused exasperation. My look turns sour and insolent in an attempt to make her see what she's done. Charlie just laughs.

"Forget it, Levi, it's not happening. But I will let you help me. Just this once," She mutters in mock disapproval, but I'm too distracted by her offer to retaliate. "But if you tell the others, I swear to god, I will kill you." And suddenly I realize that this isn't just a meal to her. She's not kidding. I swallow and hold my right hand in the air while "zipping" my mouth closed with my left. She smiles and hands me a key.

"Good boy. Now go get the good china from the cabinet in the foyer. Set the table. Forks on the left, spoon and knife on the right. And don't forget the saucers." She says and quickly turns away. _What?_ She wants me to set the table?

"Charlie," I whine petulantly. "That's not fair. I thought you were going to let me help you cook." I take the key from her hand and stalk away from her as she guffaws. What did I expect? Charlie would just drop everything and play chef with me? Did I expect that she would take me on as a culinary student in her kitchen on a day as important as this? In hindsight, falling prey to her cruel joke was mostly my fault. At least I can still set the table… I pad away from the counter, but I don't slip away before dipping my finger into the bowl of mashed potatoes and scooping out a large amount. I'm just slipping it into my mouth when she turns around.

"Michael Warren!" She shouts, but I'm already high tailing it out to the foyer. "I have a spoon and I'm not afraid to use it!" But her threat is empty and playful, and it makes me smile like a little boy in a candy store. I arrive at the cabinet and I'm about to unlock it when I hear her mutter something about cherry pie. My stomach rumbles again. _Mmmmm… cherry pie. _My favorite. And suddenly I don't care about the china anymore. I have to be in that kitchen, "sampling" that pie. You know, just in case it's not done. Wouldn't want the others to eat raw pie, now would we?

I dash back into the kitchen and sit at the bar, pasting on the most innocent smile I can muster. If I can get her to fall under my spell, maybe she'll give me a small morsel of that (insert content sigh) cherry pie. Charlie bends to open the oven, pulling out a crisp cherry pie and bringing with it the scents of Christmas Eve dinners of my childhood. I stare at it greedily, devouring it with my eyes. The hint of golden brown, the bright red of the warm cherry showing through at the center…

"You're a persistent little thing, aren't you, Warren?" Charlie says, tending to the meal. When she finally looks at me, I smile at her, and look between her and the pie with a knowing expression. She returns my hopeful glances with a look that say 'No way in hell are you getting a premature piece of my homemade pie.' I shrink back and rest my head on the countertop. But I'm not giving up that easily. The second she turns her back, my hands are on the fork, moving towards the pie at a pace rivaling the speed of light.

"NO!" Charlie screams, whirling around just in time to see my fork go in for the kill. She leaps for it with her spoon and sends it flying across the kitchen. When my fork finally clatters to the floor, she sighs in relief. "Being a weasel isn't gonna get you anywhere, Mikey."

"Don't judge. Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get caught in jet engines." My snappy retort catches her off guard, and she laughs freely. It's loud and happy, a joyous sound. It brings a smile to my face.

"Yeah, ok," She says between giggles. Her smile stretches to her ears. She puts her wooden spoon in the sink and my heart leaps into my throat.

"Is dinner ready?" I say hopefully, my voice filled with a juvenile wonder that I haven't heard since I was a young boy.

"Is the table set?" She cocks and eyebrow and puts her hands on her hips. I deflate instantly, like a balloon attacked by a sewing kit. I scowl at her. "When the table is set, we can eat. Until then, you're the only thing holding us back from the food you've been getting at for the last half hour or so." At her words, I leap to my feet, defined by my sudden new purpose. I salute her stiffly in a mocking gesture before sprinting down the hallway and nearly running straight into the cabinet. My hands fly for the key, but it isn't where I left it. I stop dead in my tracks. Without the key, I can't open the cabinet. If I can't open the cabinet, I can't set the table, and if I can't set the table… I gulp. Maybe I left it in the kitchen.

I turn sharply on my heel, prepared to fly to the kitchen in search of the key. But then I see it, at the end of the hallway, resting tightly in Charlie's dirty little palms. I rush forward, prepared to tackle her for the key. She moves quickly and I tear right past her. I slam on the brakes, sliding on my socks to turn around and chase the now escaping Charlie. I run after her through the main living room, the dining room, and into the foyer. By now I have her cornered.

"Give me the key, Charlie," I state softly. She puts her hands behind her back.

"Which one is it in?" She challenges me, the excitement of her teasing gleaming in her eyes. I cross my arms across my chest. What to do, what to do…

"You're a mean one, Mrs. Grinch," I speak impassively.

"Pick one."

"Fine. Left." She laughs at me and reveals and empty palm. I rush at her and tickle her sides as she screams.

"MIKEY!" She calls as she crumples to the floor under my merciless torture. "Stop it!"

"Give me the key, Charlie. You can make this all go away if you just give me the key," I offer calmly, not relenting to let the poor girl breathe. She thrusts her hand forward and the key comes clattering to the floor. I stop and grab for the key, leaving my stomach unprotected and vulnerable. She lunges at me and gives me a taste of my own medicine.

"Charlie," I squeak out breathily, "stop it. Stop it! STOP IT!" And she does. She withdraws her fingers and lets me relax into the floor, panting. "What happened to 'I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole'?"

"You earned it, Mikey. Hell, you asked for it," She goads. She's clearly happy about her victory, and her ego probably shot up to the moon. We lie there panting for god knows how long, recovering from our epic chase. I'm the one who finally speaks.

"So what do we do now, Charlie?" She gazes at me fondly, snickering.

"We set the table."

…

We sit down to dinner at 7:23, eighteen minutes after the first attempt to set the table. It was eventful, to say the least, but I was only scolded once for misplacing a piece of silverware. I don't think I'll ever forget that the fork goes on the left _ever_ again. The spot on my thigh where I was thwacked with a spoon is still stinging. At least most of the food is still edible after the experience. The small pot of squash Charlie had whipped up for Jakes was, however, beaten to death by an innocent pair of friends who have the inability to grip warm objects…

"Ok, everybody! Settle down," Charlie calls us to attention, thrumming her fork on the side of her glass. At her words, the table quiets and I can faintly hear the strains of Michael Bublé's "White Christmas" coming through the speakers. "Let's say grace." We all take hands, mine in Paige's and Johnny's.

"Dear Lord, we would like to thank you for this wonderful opportunity to give thanks for everything you do and to celebrate a fantastic holiday season. Thanks, especially for the time to spend with our family," Charlie begins. We all murmur a collective amen and it is Briggs's turn to speak.

"God, we really appreciate this. Thank you for the lovely gifts you have given us this year. Thank you for my family, my home, my job, and everything else I'm sure I've forgotten." The amens sound and it's Paige's turn.

"Thank you for blessing us with such a wonderful holiday season and a wonderful family to share it with. Thanks for the fantastic food, as I'm sure it will be, and thanks for the good friends that we all get to spend our lives with." Jakes clears his throat.

"Um, thanks. For the food and the family, I mean. And thank God there was orange juice," Jakes states impassively. He seems uncomfortable with the whole institution of prayer. Johnny starts praying.

"Yo, big man, I really appreciate that none of us are dead. I know it takes a lot sometimes, but you never fail to keep us safe. Thanks so much for keeping the family together, you know, so we can celebrate these things with each other and have this family we're all thankful for," He finishes. The group murmurs their amens, and I prepare myself to pray.

"Hey, so I want to thank you for everything you've done here. Thanks for keeping us safe, together, and giving us a place to stay. For a long time I was unsure about being here, but you gave me the reassurance I needed through my five roommates who have come to be a part of my family. Now I feel like I belong here, and like my life has meaning. Amen."

And with the grace said, we dig in. The food is just as delicious as we all expected, and the room is silent except for the Christmas tunes in the background and the sounds of chewing and swallowing. I smile at my oblivious roommates, my family, and think back to my last Christmas Eve dinner at home. It was a long time ago, but I still remember it clearly. My mother hugged me and told me I was growing up too fast, my father shook my hand brusquely and we shared a distant conversation, and my sister tried to show a PowerPoint on why she deserved the space in my room after I left for college. It always felt warm somehow, though, because I was with my family. And I was with them now, too, just a different branch of them.

We ate in peace for a while, having comfortable and free conversation, but one by one we cleared our plates and retired for the evening. It is Christmas Eve, after all, and it it going to be a big day tomorrow. I'm just considering the idea of giving up on my ham when Charlie calls my name from the kitchen, a hint of laughter in her voice.

"What?" I mumble, confused.

"Guess what, Warren," She challenges and when I don't respond she comes close and whispers something almost silently in my ear.

"You're on dish duty."


End file.
